


Pet AU Collection

by InvertedPhantasmagoria



Category: Diabolik Lovers
Genre: Ableist Language, Abuse, Alternate Universe, Beating, Begging, Blood and Gore, Brain Damage, Branding, Broken Bones, Burns, Canon Disabled Character, Cock & Ball Torture, Corpses, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Death Threats, Domesticated Vampires, Drain Cleaner, Electrification, Fang Removal, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Grave digging, Hallucinations, Inspired By Tumblr, Minor Character Death, Multiple Orgasms, Mutilation, Non-Consensual Bondage, Obedience, Overstimulation, Painful Sex, Panic Attacks, Paranoia, Permanent Injury, Power Imbalance, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Psychosis, Public Humiliation, Public Nudity, Rape, Schizophrenia, Shock Collars, Temperature Play, Threats of Violence, Torture, Vampires, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:01:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22155193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InvertedPhantasmagoria/pseuds/InvertedPhantasmagoria
Summary: A commissioned collection of shorts featuring the Pet AU boys suffering! One section for each boy, with content so awful I've had a commenter from tumblr say it's "straight out of a horror movie". Cross-posted in individual parts on my tumblr for easy reference, but compiled all together here. Enjoy the pain, everyone~
Comments: 4
Kudos: 52





	Pet AU Collection

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello! Pretty much everything important has been said in the summary, and warnings are so extensive that all I have to say on that matter is "check the tags", sooo I think we're good and ready for the story to start! As usual, my tumblr and writing Discord are below, and I hope everyone feeds me with nice, juicy comments OwO
> 
> dixbolik-lovers.tumblr.com
> 
> https://discord.gg/dxU3pHd

  1. **Sakamaki Shuu**



A box of matches. Simple enough, but the very sight of them makes Shuu feel sick. They’ve done this little game before. When he doesn’t move when they tell him to, when he’s too slow or too lazy or any number of other things that he shouldn’t be, he’s woken up to a box of matches kicked into his cage and a guard sitting down nice and close. 

Shuu hates this punishment. It’s one of the ones that makes his stomach churn. It might be the worst one they’ve thought of for him yet short of just taking a lighter to his skin and listening to him scream.

“Get going,” the guard tells him. Shuu feels himself shudder. 

Sitting up, Shuu picks up the box of matches with a hand that was broken not too long ago. The joints still hurt. It still aches when he moves it. He doesn’t want to have it broken again, so–, so he’s just going to have to deal with the punishment upfront. He doesn’t even know what he _did._

As is the routine, Shuu takes one match out of the box. His hand is shaking so badly he can barely hold it, whatever heart he has pounding way too hard in his chest. He might vomit, he thinks, but if he does, they’ll just make him lick it up to teach him not to make a mess, then hand him the box of matches all over again. It’s not fair. It’s not _fair._ He’s terrified, he doesn’t know what he did wrong other than maybe sleeping for a little too long the day before, and this kind of punishment has to be overdoing it. 

But this is what humans can get away with. There’s no such thing as not deserving it. If a human says he needs to be punished, then Shuu doesn’t have a choice. He just has to sit there and take it. 

So Shuu, even with his vision blurring, strikes the match against the ground. It bursts into flame and he flinches, almost dropping the match altogether in his panic. As he knows he has to, Shuu keeps ahold of the match, letting it burn lower and lower. The fire gets closer to his fingers. Shuu whines low through his teeth. He hates this part. He hates the waiting and the anticipating and the fear of what he knows is coming next. 

The match reaches his fingertips. Shuu bites down on his lip so he doesn’t make some horrible, frightened sound. The heat of the fire was bad enough when it was an inch or so away. Right beside his fingers, it’s searing. Shuu swears for a moment that his whole body will go up in flames. 

But then, the match is gone, leaving behind nothing but the tiniest of burns on Shuu’s fingertips. It’s still enough to leave him hyperventilating. 

“Next one,” the guard says with a grin. “You’ve got a whole box to go through, so you’d better hurry up. If you’re lazy now, things’ll only get worse.” Shuu is getting the distinct feeling that this is torture, not a punishment. He really just wants to lay down and pretend like the situation doesn’t exist. He needs today’s routine nightmare to be over already. 

And yet, Shuu knows better. 

He draws another match and repeats the process. This time, it hurts a little bit more. His fingertips are already starting to feel red and hot and just burned enough to make it hurt. The box has fifty matches in it. Shuu can’t imagine what his fingers will feel like by the time that many are gone. 

Actually, he can. They’ve made him go through a hundred before, until the skin of his fingers– on both hands– was blistered and almost purple. 

Another match, then another, then a few more after that. The panic in Shuu’s chest rises to a blazing flame, burning brighter than all of the matches combined. His fingers hurt. His lungs feel like they’re going to explode. His vision is swimming with black flecks and blurring far more than can possibly be healthy. He feels like he might scream, or cry, or throw the box of matches at the guard and curl up in the corner and pray that they’ll just leave him alone already. There are flames dancing behind his eyelids every time he closes his eyes. 

And then, Shuu can’t take it anymore. He’s lost track of what match it is, but he throws one down when it’s only halfway burned, a horrible wheezing sound tearing through his chest. 

This is a wrong move on every level. As soon as the match hits the ground, fizzling out instantly, the guard is on his feet. The door to Shuu’s cage swings open, the guard steps inside, and a second later the box of matches is snatched out of Shuu’s hands like he’s lost a privilege. 

“See, that’s not what I told you to do,” the guard says, looking much too happy about this. “You disobeyed. And when you disobey, you get punished. Every time you do that again, the next one gets put out on you, got it?” Maybe that’ll teach you some obedience.”

From there, the guard grabs a match out of the box, striking it quickly, and– and–

The heat hits Shuu on his shoulder. He was too frozen to do anything but sit there numbly, praying what the guard said wasn’t true, but now– now there’s fire on his skin, the smell of burning flesh in the air, and a panic in Shuu’s chest that only comes from this particular form of torture. He drops onto his side, barely breathing, but all the guard does is follow. 

Laughing, laughing, laughing like it’s oh-so-entertaining to leave Shuu pinned down under the thing that scares him most. The burning only lasts a few seconds, but to Shuu, it feels like hours. 

The guard sits back when the match has burnt out. He tells Shuu to keep going. He hands Shuu back the box of matches with a grin that says he’d be lighting Shuu himself on fire if he had permission. This isn’t going to end until every match is either wasted away or burnt out on his skin. 

Closing his eyes, Shuu takes another match out of the box. 

  1. **Sakamaki Reiji**



Discipline is important for becoming a worthy companion. Reiji understands well that his very life depends on making someone happy, on becoming good enough that he’ll be wanted. It’s a terrifying prospect, but one that he’s determined to face. One that he’s determined to achieve. 

But sometimes, taking another step towards that goal is almost too painful to bear. ‘Training’ is harsh and brutal, pushing his starvation-weakened body to the limits of what it can take. Just standing upright when needed is a struggle sometimes. Reiji can see every line of his ribs when he looks down at himself, and the only comfort he has in that regard is the tantalizing idea of an owner who cares enough to feed him. 

It’s not something to think about for long. Reiji has more important things to be doing. Things that will end badly for him should he slack off. 

At the moment, said ‘things’ are a pile of dishes from the shelter’s employees, piled high in the sink in precarious towers of white. There are so many of them that Reiji has been at this for an hour and barely made a dent. He thinks that the dishes were saved up just to keep him busy, which– which shouldn’t make him upset, no matter how hard it is. 

The problem there is that the water used for the dishes is _boiling._ Not literally, sure, but it’s hot enough to his chilled body’s skin that it might as well be. Reiji’s hands have been pink from ten seconds into washing, and by now, the skin is reddened, swollen, and starting to peel. His fingers are going stiff, and he’s positive that he’s already burned so badly he’ll be feeling it for weeks. And– as much as Reiji wants to be very good and keep working, it’s starting to hurt a little too much to focus properly.

It’s then, while moving a dish from the sink to the strainer nearby, that Reiji drops the first dish.

It’s a simple fumble. His fingers are so sore and achy from the water that it’s just too hard to hold onto the slippery surface. The dish slides from his fingers and Reiji watches with horror as it crashes to the floor. 

Because Reiji’s luck is nothing but terrible, the dish shatters. Instantly, cold panic rises in Reiji’s throat. He’s, he’s going to suffer for that, surely. His burned hands clench together, blunt nails digging into the inflamed skin. Just looking at the mess makes him feel like he could be sick. 

And just as Reiji is expecting, the guard who’s been watching him stands up. “Come on,” is all he says, grabbing Reiji by the arm and dragging him to the walk-in freezer just across the room. Reiji’s chest fills with dread. 

He’s sat down next to two bins of ice. He’s told that he’s to sort the ice from one bin to the other until he’s told to stop. Shivering already from the chill of the freezer, his cold-blooded body protesting the sudden change in temperature, Reiji thinks nauseously about what it’ll feel like to have his hands buried in _ice._ Especially with how burned they already are. 

But Reiji is nothing if not obedient. He sits down on the cold, hard ground, and picks up the first piece of ice without any delay. 

Instantly, it _burns._ Worse than the water ever was, the sudden cold sears at his fingers like a brand. Not two minutes in and Reiji begins to notice angry blisters forming on his fingers, swollen and white and filled with fluid. He fights down panic as best he can. He’s the one who earned this. 

It’s probably ten minutes before the guard tells him he’s allowed to stop. By that point, Reiji’s hands are an agonizing, blistered mess. He’s shaking from the pain, the rush of blood thundering in his ears from the tension keeping him coiled tight. Everything from the tips of his fingers up to his wrists _hurts,_ searing pain on every inch of his burnt skin. 

Reiji is dragged right back out to the dishes. 

Fighting back the urge to whimper, Reiji puts his hands right back under the endlessly hot water, squirting out another dollop of ridiculously harsh detergent. Instantly, the pain in his hands all but triples. 

The hot water here never seems to run out. Reiji’s there for another thirty minutes, scrubbing dishes until he’s up to his elbows in water that feels even closer to boiling than before. His blisters pop, burn deeper, pain rising and rising as there’s no way for him to get relief. Forced to stand on unsteady legs, it’s a miracle he’s keeping himself upright. He’s not used to this. Standing is reserved for training, and even then, _especially_ then, it’s difficult to hold himself on two feet, his body unaccustomed to standing. 

Reiji drops another dish not forty minutes in. He actually whimpers at the sight of it. That– That means– He chokes on nothing, fighting the urge to drop to his knees and curl into a very little ball. This isn’t _fair._ With his hands so wrecked, keeping a solid hold on the dishes is impossible.

But regardless of fair, Reiji is pulled right back to the ice. He blisters worse this time, hands two agonizing points of pain. He can barely feel his fingers, and by the time the ten minutes are up, tears are streaking down his face unbidden. Just sitting on the cold concrete is making every bone in his body ache. Despite himself, he’s longing to be back in his cage. 

It’s back to the dishes. This time, Reiji doesn’t last twenty minutes before another dish is shattered on the floor. He actually _sobs_ at that, composure failing him in the face of returning to the ice once again. 

The pattern repeats. Reiji goes from dishes to ice and back again, eventually getting down to the point where it’s not five minutes before his aching, ruined hands have him fumbling another dish and forcing him to go right back to the ice. His hands are a mess of blisters, swelling, and blood. The skin itself is peeling off in places. He’s been set up to fail, to suffer, and there’s nothing he can do about it. This isn’t training– this is torture. 

  1. **Sakamaki Ayato**



Ayato sits with a bottle in front of him, having many, many regrets. He’s kneeling on the concrete like usual, but this time, what’s about to happen is going to be way worse than what he’s used to. 

He made a mistake. It was a small, stupid one, but apparently, it was bad enough that he’s getting punished like _this._ The bottle sitting innocently on the ground is making Ayato’s stomach churn. It’s drain cleaner, taken right from a supply cabinet in the very room he’s sitting in. It’s a decent-sized bottle, which means that this punishment could go on for a while. Ayato gulps again just looking at it. His hands are shaking. 

The only thing he did was mouth off to a guard. He’d gotten kicked in the stomach again, and--, and-- the first thing that had come out of his mouth on instinct alone was a frustrated, desperate retort. Ayato is _trying._ Wanting a home more than anything, he’s been doing his best to be quiet and agreeable and good. But now, one little mistake has him here. 

With the concrete bruising his bony knees and the sound of blood rushing in his ears, Ayato knows he’s stalling. He doesn’t want to do this. Just sitting there is making him sick to his stomach. He doesn’t know how they expect him to actually do it-- to have even a chance at success. 

What he’s expected to do is take a mouthful of the drain cleaner and swish it around in his mouth for a full thirty seconds, no spitting it out. 

If he does spit it out, they say, he has to start all over. 

Ayato trembles, looking at the bottle with utter fear. He _knows_ it’s going to hurt. There’s no way they’d be doing it to him if it wouldn’t. There are three guards sitting at a table right above him, watching Ayato like this is some kind of sick show. That alone cues him in that this is going to be something bad. It’s enough that they all feel like watching. 

“Hurry up,” one of them snaps, grinning a bit too much. “We don’t have all day. You can either do it properly, or one of us is going to come down there and pour the whole fucking thing down your throat.”

Ayato’s breath catches hard in his chest. That’s enough of a threat to get him moving. With a shaky hand, he picks up the bottle, unscrews the cap, and with an awful sense of dread sitting low in his stomach, holds it up to his lips. The chemical sent hits fast. Ayato feels like he could be sick. 

But knowing that he has to obey, he takes a swallow’s worth of the drain cleaner into his mouth like a good pet. Like he can be good. 

Instantly, it _burns._ Ayato yelps, throat spasming. He spits it out before he can stop himself, spraying liquid all over the floor and dribbling down the front of him. His mouth sears even when it’s been spat out, every trace of liquid left burning into his flesh with its sick, chemical taste. 

“Again,” a guard says next. “You don’t get to quit until it’s been thirty seconds. You’d better figure out how to keep it in.”

Ayato trembles, looking up at the man with utter terror. They can’t be serious. That hurt way too much. There’s no way he can keep it in his mouth for that _long._ He’s bound to fail. He’ll go through the whole bottle like this.

The second time, Ayato holds it in his mouth for maybe five seconds. _Maybe._ It hurts worse this time, worse by a lot. There are tears streaming down his face by the time he chokes it out, hot and wet and burning when they so much as make contact with his swollen, chemical-seared lips. Ayato feels like his mouth might be melting, and he’s barely made it a sixth of the way to what he’s supposed to. He’s never going to do it. He’ll be made to sit here forever, and if he’s truly, truly unlucky, they’ll go find a bottle of something worse when he fails to get through the first one. 

The third try is much the same. Ayato tries as hard as he can, forcing his mouth to stay shut even when he feels like screaming. He swishes the drain cleaner through his mouth obediently, sniffling brokenly as the tears keep pouring. He lasts about twelve seconds that time, from his probably-off count He doesn’t know how much more of he can take. 

“ _Please,_ ” Ayato sobs when he spits it out once again. “I c-can’t-- can’t do this!” His mouth feels like it’s splitting open from the inside. There’s blood in what he spit up. “I-I’ll-- I c-can-- I’ll be g-g-good I _swear_.”

The guards just laugh. 

Ayato picks up the bottle again, trying to imagine that it’s a real owner making him do this. He’d do it if it was for them. No matter what. 

If he had a home, he could do anything, Ayato thinks, taking another mouthful of drain cleaner. He could do this if it was an owner telling him to. Determinedly, Ayato holds the searing liquid in his mouth, forcing himself to ignore the taste of blood mingling with the chemical acid. 

Somehow, somehow, he does it. Ayato is sobbing brokenly by the time one of the guards claps. He’s swallowed some of it by now, leaving a blazing trail of agony from his mouth to his belly that he knows won’t go away. As soon as he knows he can, Ayato spits the awful, awful liquid out, coughing and gagging as he sees that the puddle of it is tinted a dark red. 

He vomits a moment later, coughing up stomach acid that leaves him choking on screams between dry heaves. Somehow, impossibly, it hurts _worse._ Ayato sobs, feeling more blood drool out of his mouth. 

But-- But he did it. It’s over now. He followed an order, even if it took him way too long to do it. If this was with someone who owned him, surely they’d be pleased. Ayato focuses on that thought, forces himself to imagine someone who would praise him for lasting so long. He refuses to let go of the image of someone’s hand in his hair. 

  1. **Sakamaki Kanato**



Kanto’s world is dark. The handlers put a blindfold over his eyes for reasons unknown. He doesn’t know what he did wrong, what made him bad enough that he deserves an extra challenge in his practice today, but the feeling alone of being unable to see the world around him _hurts._

He’s left to fold laundry like that, which is a thousand levels of unfair. There are tears already prickling at his eyes, frustrated and scared. There’s no way he’s going to get this right. He’s bound to fail from the very start, and with no idea what will happen to him when he inevitably messes everything up, he’s already teetering on the verge of panic. 

The fabric under his hands is the only thing Kanato has to ground him. He’s in the laundry room, he knows, on his knees on the concrete-- bruising down to the bone--, white noise from the washers and dryers in the background the only thing he can hear. The repetitive sound burns his ears, working its way into his brain and wiggling something sharp and crooked around inside. He’s starting to feel uneasy. The world around him is dark, and there’s nothing he can feel but crisp fabric, hard concrete, and his hair in his face. It’s starting to get almost painful to sit still. 

Kanato thinks he’s doing okay on the laundry. Even folding blindfolded, no one has come in to kick him or scream at him yet, so his progress must be up to the employees’ standards. He must be doing something right. 

Even though his hands are shaking horribly, Kanato presses on. He’s starting to feel scattered, worn thin. A faint ringing is starting up just beyond the sound of the washers, and that alone makes him choke on a sob. Hearing things that aren’t there is a bad, bad sign. Worse things are coming if the noises are starting up so soon.

He keeps working. There’s something almost calming about the folding itself, even if it’s a thousand times harder working blind. He--, He doesn’t mind this kind of chore normally. Kanato doesn’t get beaten so long as he worked quickly enough, doesn’t get locked up all by himself. 

But before long, the voices start. 

Kanato hears a whisper in his ear before he knows what’s happening. It’s a hushed, quiet voice, but one that sounds distinctly angry.

It hisses something frightening that Kanato can’t quite make out, the tone of it rushing from one ear to the other. He jolts hard, shivering, fumbling the piece of laundry currently in his hands. Fighting down the panic inside of him, Kanato forces himself to keep going, even as a high whine rises in his throat. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want the voices back. 

The next time, it’s a flash of something red and crawling through his vision, scurrying over a wall that only exists in his head. And for all Kanato knows it’s not real, he still jerks back, squeaking loudly with fear. 

This-- he’s bound to fail if this keeps up. 

They keep coming. What feels like every few minutes-- maybe seconds, maybe hours-- things start slipping into Kanato’s vision. He sees purple flames dancing in the darkness of his blindfold. He hears the whisper of his mother’s voice that he can only barely remember. Bugs scurry up invisible walls, things burrow into his skin, and--, and--

The tears start slipping before Kanato knows it, streaking down his cheeks in warm, drippy lines. A sob chokes out through his chest. He has to bite down on the feeling of nausea rising in his throat. His hands are getting shakier. He knows his folding is getting messy. If he keeps this up, he’s going to be in trouble, but Kanato can’t focus on a thing past the voices in his ears and the way the room is spinning. He’s alone. He’s _alone,_ and there’s nothing he can do to escape. He might as well be chained down. 

Kanato starts to whimper. He balls his fists in whatever useless piece of fabric he’s holding, digging his nails in until he feels something tear. He can hear himself crying, hiccuping with sobs, panic only rising, rising, rising until the door to the laundry room slams open with a vicious _thud._

Before Kanato has time to choke out a frantic apology, footsteps cross the room. He’s messed up. He’s messed up much too badly--

The first kick is aimed at his ribs. Kanato yelps, crumpling, tearing through his lip with his fangs just to avoid making any irritating sounds. He gets kicked again, again, and once more, and by that fourth hit, he can’t stop the wail of pain that leaves him. There was no warning. There was no reason given. He knows what he did and that’s all that counts. 

At some point, the guard switches to just plain beating him, breaking his nose with one strong fist and hitting him across the face until Kanato hears his jaw _pop._

He’s weak to pain. Everyone knows he can’t stand being hurt. Something this brutal is surely just done to make him suffer. 

By the time the beating ends, Kanato is left lying in a small puddle of his own blood, more of it running down the inside of his nose and throat. He’s shaking much too hard. He feels like his heart might just burst. 

“You had one job,” the guard says. “It was simple, too. All you had to do was fold some clothes, and now you got blood all over them.”

Kanato whimpers. He was set up to fail. There was no way he could do this ‘simple job’, and all of them surely knew it. But-- but creatures like him don’t get to complain. All he can do is stay on the floor and let the tears wash the blood off of his face, praying that he doesn’t get hit again. 

“So now you get to stay here. You’ll stay right here until the laundry is done, and now you have to wash it again too.” There’s a smirk in the guard’s voice. “You can learn your lesson the hard way if you’re difficult.”

Another sob slips out of Kanato’s throat. 

  1. **Sakamaki Laito**



Laito is tied down tight. He has the feeling they’re going to need it. His arms are bound behind his back, his legs are forced open and spread, and there’s a loop around his waist that means he can’t do a thing to struggle away. This... This does not bode well. If they’re going so far, something very, very bad has to be coming next. Something that means they’ll _need_ to make sure he can’t move properly. That he can’t get away. 

He doesn’t want to think about what exactly that ‘next’ might be. However, considering that he’s naked, Laito has a pretty good guess. 

Something sexual. _Again._

Now, when Laito was younger, he had some sort of hope. Maybe he’d find a good owner. Maybe he’d wind up in a decent home. He’d never expected to be turned into some kind of living sex toy, but there he is, used for one thing and one thing alone. They don’t even try to train him anymore. 

Laito tips his head back as much as he can, looking up to the ceiling. The guard sitting in front of him is digging in his tool bag. As much as Laito thinks he should have some shame about his state of undress, he can’t quite seem to muster it. It doesn’t matter anymore who sees what. It’s not this is the first time he’s been on display. It certainly won’t be the last. 

So he tries to stay still. The more obedient he is, the easier this will be on him. It’s in his benefit to be good. Maybe someone will even bother to have some kind of mercy on him. Maybe. If he’s _lucky._

But then the guard pulls an electric toothbrush from his toolbag, and every hope Laito had drops like a stone from a four-story building. 

“You’re lucky,” the guard says. “This is gonna feel good. Well... at least for a little while.” He smirks. Laito resigns himself to misery. 

To start the chain of suffering, the guard gets his hand around Laito’s cock, stroking him rough and dry a couple of times. It doesn’t get much of a reaction, but Laito wills himself to get hard. The sooner he gets this over with, the better. It takes a while, but eventually, his dry, chafing cock starts to swell up from the relentless stimulation alone. It doesn’t feel good, but at least it means he’s sort of trained, as horrible a fact as that may be. 

Once he’s half-hard, the guard picks up the toothbrush. Laito has a very good guess as to where this is going and he hates every part of it. If only they’d just leave him in his cage to die there. Starvation might actually hurt less than whatever this person has planned for him next. 

But vampires aren’t people. They aren’t people, so things like what Laito _wants_ don’t matter a bit. He’d be better off getting that through his head quickly, he reminds himself. It’d be easier that way. 

The guard brings the brush to Laito’s cock, stroking up and down the length of it a couple of times. Just that touch is painful-- harsh bristles scraping roughly against tender skin. When the guard moves on to circling the brush around the head of him, Laito sucks in a gasp. The sensation is already too much. He swears he can feel every individual bristle. 

After a few moments of that, after long enough to leave Laito squirming, in a move that comes as absolutely no surprise--

The guard flicks the switch and turns the brush on. 

Instantly, a shriek is drawn from Laito’s throat. His head slams back against the wall, his whole body shuddering. The noises keep coming. His hips are trying to jerk away. He can barely _breathe_ and it hasn’t even been ten seconds yet. It hurts so much worse than he’d thought it would-- the spinning of the brush utter torture as it scrapes his sensitive skin raw. 

There are tears streaking down Laito’s face before he can stop them. He’s coming within ten more seconds, his cock spraying white before he knows what’s happening. It’s sheer sensation overload. There’s not a drop of pleasure in it. Every spurt is forced out, pulled out of him with barbed wire and electric pain surging from the one point of unbearable contact. Laito can feel his chest heaving, feel himself sobbing and screeching uncontrollably. 

But-- And then the strange part. As soon as the first orgasm hits, it’s like he’s watching from outside of his body, barely feeling the pain even as, at the same time, every nerve feels like it’s burning. 

When he comes again, Laito _screams._

He’s struggling, he can feel it. His body is jerking all on its own, writhing in his bindings like it actually thinks he can get away. Laito would laugh at the futility of it if his lungs weren’t occupied with screaming. It hurts so badly he’s surprised he’s still somehow conscious. 

The third orgasm hits maybe a minute later. Laito loses track of the seconds when the guard bumps up the speed of the brush. 

As soon as the wave of utter agony crests and falls, Laito goes limp. He’s breathing so hard his body can’t find a way to scream. He’s a boneless wreck of pain and come and spasming muscles, every part of him still twitching out of his control. Distantly, Laito prays that it will be over soon. In the present, low, desperate moans leave his throat. 

He might be dying for how much pain he’s in, but even then-- even _now--_ his body won’t stop coming. The endless stimulation is frying every nerve he has. He swears he can feel blood dripping down his cock. 

After another moment or two, with a chuckle that makes Laito’s blood run cold, the guard moves the brush up to Laito’s slit. His body does manage another scream at that, somehow-- a long, drawn-out, miserable one that doesn’t end until his lungs are burning. Please, Laito thinks, just have it be over already. Just shove him back into his cage and leave him there. As his vision spins, Laito prays that he’ll give whatever reaction will be satisfying enough to make the guard bring this torture to an end. 

  1. **Sakamaki Subaru**



There’s a collar around Subaru’s neck, chokingly tight. His breath feels thin, and what they’re going to do to him hasn’t even started. ‘Fixing his anger issues’ someone said. Training him, as usual, to be something even a little bit more useful. As if, by being hurt and broken and punished enough times, he could become the kind of thing that someone would want to own. 

The thought alone is painful. All of this-- all of it’s for nothing. The twin holes in Subaru’s mouth where his fangs used to be, empty and always, always aching, are proof that he’s too bad to ever be wanted. He and the guards both have to be aware that this ‘training’ is futile. 

Subaru allows his head to lean back where he kneels. This is going to be bad. The collar doesn’t feel like a normal one, doesn’t feel like the good kind. It’s heavier, with more metal pieces, and something about it gives Subaru a very, very bad feeling. Training has meant all kinds of bad things before, and as much as Subaru wants to become something good enough to be wanted and owned, he has his doubts that what they do to him is really doing any good. He’s tired. He’s slowly, slowly losing all hope. 

There are two guards sitting in front of him, settled at a table while Subaru kneels on the floor. It’s an intimidating position, but one that definitely feels like how he belongs; at a human’s feet. 

“You ready to see what this does?” one of them laughs, waving a little remote in the air. Subaru wants to say that no, he definitely is not. 

But ‘sass’ will only get him in trouble. Talking back might get him a few broken ribs. Even if vampires heal fast, the pain of it and the poor healing will make him ache for weeks to come. Subaru’s not stupid, no matter how much everything seems to want to think he is. 

So instead, he stays very quiet and very still, even as tension makes his hands tremor where they rest in his lap. He’s scared. Undeniably so. 

After a minute of no response, the guard gives a pleased, pitying grin. He shifts the remote into his hand, Subaru closes his eyes tight in anticipation of something bad, he hears the click of a dial and then--

Pain. Sharp, electric pain, coming right from the thing around his neck. It’s enough to draw a desperate cry out of him, enough to have Subaru curling in tight and to have his hands flying to the collar as if to rip it off. It’s a shock collar. He understands now. Why they’re doing this to him is still a mystery, but one that likely doesn’t have an answer. 

As soon as the pain ends, Subaru almost drops. He has to steady himself on one arm, panting hard and trying to make himself breathe after every muscle in his body had seized up hard. They’re going to do it again. There’s no doubt about that. Subaru feels his body choke on a sob. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve this. Maybe they just want to hear him scream. It doesn’t seem fair, but then again, nothing really does. 

Feeling some hot, unhappy wave rise in his chest, in his stomach, Subaru bites down on his lip. He can’t get angry. He can’t do anything bad. Making a mistake now would be grounds for terrible, terrible punishment. 

Subaru thinks he wants to break something, thinks that his body might almost try to move on its own. His temper has always been an intense, wild thing-- never controllable, never tame. They’ve always said that it’s the reason no one will ever want him. 

The next shock comes, the guards looking down at Subaru with humor he can see even through his blurring vision. The pain at his neck is searing and sharp. He can almost smell the beginnings of burnt flesh. The shock has to be strong enough to subdue a vampire, probably enough to kill a human. Subaru can’t help but scream this time. The guard _has_ to have turned the intensity up. Subaru’s body jerks out of his control, muscles spasming. 

It seems to go on forever. The world spins, Subaru’s vision blacks, and through the feeling of lightening in his nerves, all he can think is that he probably did deserve it in the end. He’s broken. He’s _bad._

When the dial clicks again, mercifully taking away the pain, Subaru drops. His body sprawls against the concrete, leaving him struggling to catch his breath as his lungs finally have room to expand. His heart is pounding. His chest is tight. It feels sort of like he’s dying. 

“What do you think?” the guard with the remote asks. “Are you learning anything? Maybe you’ll get a little self-control.”

The two things have nothing to do with each other. Subaru doesn’t know if they expect him to be scared into submission (he already is) or if they intend to keep shocking him until his brain is fried. 

With one hand clinging to the shock collar desperately, barely restraining himself from ripping it away, Subaru chokes on a sob. The tears spill over, wetness dribbling down his face. He’s scared. They’ve already done so much to hurt him, and he doesn’t even know _why._ The holes where his fangs used to be have started to ache again. Subaru is silently praying that the guards will get bored of his screams soon enough. 

But all the man does is twist the dial once again. 

It hurts even worse than before. They have to be turning the voltage up. He writhes on the ground, body bucking out of his control as the electricity surges through his muscles. It doesn’t _stop._ Everything hurts, hurts, hurts, and Subaru can only hold his breath and hope that his heart doesn’t burst from the pain of it all. 

Finally, finally, his vision goes white, blurry. In a moment of absolute mercy, Subaru passes out. 

  1. **Mukami Ruki**



They tie him down. That’s probably a good idea, considering what they have to do. Ruki vomits twice, choking on bile from fear alone as the guards, the employees strap him down with his limbs all spread out so there’s no way he could wiggle away. He feels panic rise, hot and sharp and fierce. 

The escape attempt couldn’t have gone more wrong. Ruki doesn’t know what’s happened to the other three, to Kou and Yuuma and Azusa, but he can hope that the shelter is going to blame him, not them. He’s the smart one. He’s the troublemaker. He can pray that they’ll assume everything was his idea and only take the punishment out on him. The others don’t deserve it. They never would. They’ve been hurt enough for one lifetime. 

He might die. It’s slowly occurring to Ruki that death is a very real possibility. It would make sense for the shelter to want to put bad stock down. They might only be strapping him down for euthanasia. 

It’s a terrifying thought on a thousand levels. Ruki can’t help it. A sob leaves his throat, he strains against the restraints and prays, _prays_ that he’ll be the only one they hurt. That he’ll be the only one who has to suffer and hurt. If he has to die, so be it, so long as everyone else is safe. 

Safe really isn’t a concept that exists for them anymore. 

Before long, with nothing to occupy his mind but stare at the wall in front of him and listen to the guards ready whatever it is they’re going to do to him, Ruki starts to smell fire and heated metal. 

And that’s-- that’s a bad sign on so many levels. Ruki gags again, chokes. He’s terrified, that much he can’t deny. For all he was supposed to be the leader and the protector, now he’s tied down and awaiting what he’s getting the increasing feeling is going to involve _burns._

“Alright, you little escape artist.” One of the guards leans down, grabs Ruki by the hair, whispers in his ear like the two of them are sharing some worthwhile secret. “You’re going to _learn._ Either that, or you’ll die.”

There’s a smile in the man’s voice. Whatever they plan to do, the humans will enjoy it. That almost makes everything worse. It’s one thing to suffer, but another to have that pain serve as nothing but entertainment. Ruki thinks of how he could have been free, how, with just a little bit better planning, all four of them could be somewhere safe, away from the torture that the shelter has always been. Ruki thinks he might deserve this. 

The next thing Ruki knows, before he has time to think, there’s something pressing down on his back that’s _searing._ Instantly, as soon as the initial, choked-off shock wears off, Ruki’s screaming. He can feel his flesh melting, smell it burning, the stink of charred skin hitting his nose and making everything blur black around the edges. It hurts worse than anything he’s ever felt. If the ties weren’t holding him down, he’d have jerked off the table by now. The pain is pure, liquid-hot agony racing up his spine. 

The blazing pressure feels like it lasts for hours. In reality, it’s probably a matter of moments. When finally, finally it pulls away, there are tears streaking down Ruki’s face, snot dripping down his chin, and a pain over his shoulderblade so bad he thinks he might be dying. 

Before he has time to think, before he has a moment to recover, the same heat is pressing down on his other shoulderblade. 

Ruki _screeches,_ louder than ever, writhing underneath his bonds like his body actually thinks it can get away. Every thought is flushed from his head, pain surging through every nerve. It’s all he can feel. 

He screams until the iron pulls away, maybe a little bit after. By the time he stops, Ruki’s voice is hoarse, broken, throat screamed raw. He can hear the guards laughing. He can smell smoke and fire and the awful, awful stink of seared flesh. That’s _him._ He’s smelling his own body burning. 

And then, again-- A different shape, a different pressure, a different pain, digging into his side. Another scream, dry and raw and painful, is torn from Ruki’s throat. He can barely breathe past it all. His vision is spinning, going black. The pain is so extreme that even though he knows, _knows_ he’s not dying, it honestly feels like he could. It hurts worse than anything Ruki’s ever been through, than the anything person he called owner ever did. 

It’s over after a minute, but Ruki has no doubts that something worse is coming. The guards unstrap him, roll him over onto his back. The pressure against the fresh burns makes Ruki howl again, makes his body jerk. 

The guards hold him down, hands on his shoulders and thighs, pinning him in place. They strap the ties down again, this time with his hands over his head and palm up. Ruki knows that something is coming, something awful once again. Maybe they’ll burn him until he’s covered in fresh scars. 

No one would want such an ugly, damaged thing. They’re ruining Ruki’s every chance at a home-- if he thought he had one to begin with. 

And then, the burning, liquid-hot pain goes to his hand. 

His vision was too blurry to see it coming, but now, a guard is holding his hand curled around a pole that feels like the heat of hell itself. Once again, Ruki smells burned flesh. The guards hold it there for what feels like an eternity, rolling his fingers until every inch of his hand is seared. 

They’re ruining him. When they move onto his other hand, Ruki knows they’re ruining him. He’ll be helpless like this. He’ll barely be able to function. There’s no way he’ll be able to escape again. 

A hysterical cry tears itself from Ruki’s throat. This might be what dying feels like. At this rate, he’ll find out soon enough. 

  1. **Mukami Kou**



There’s a collar around Kou’s neck and a leash tying him firmly to the nearest bench. The leash is short enough that there’s really no hiding or getting away, and that-- that’s the real problem here.

The bench just happens to be in the middle of a public sidewalk, in plain view of any humans who happen to pass by. It’s early enough in the morning that no one is out and about yet, but it’s obvious that this is an area where there will be plenty of people nearby. 

And that’s what’s making Kou _panic._ Humans-- Humans mean _pain._ Humans mean sharp objects and things inside of him and hurt, hurt, hurt that never goes away. One of them is bad, a group is worse, and the very idea of being left by the side of the walkway for anyone to stare at or touch makes Kou feel like throwing up. Being stared at, being watched, being cornered on all sides and tied up where he can’t do a thing to get away--

It’s like a living nightmare. 

Kou squirms, whines, curling his legs up closer to his chest and trying to make himself small. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to be seen. 

But there’s nothing he can do, and before long, the first people start to emerge. Every one of them stares right at him as they pass, and within minutes, by the time the third person has passed, Kou finds himself hyperventilating instead of just choking back desperate little sounds. 

A man’s eyes don’t leave Kou the whole time he walks by. A woman makes a displeased face at the very sight of him. A child stares and points, tugging at their mother’s hand. Kou swears he can hear hushed whispers, feel a thousand eyes on his skin. Everyone there is watching. Everyone who passes by can see. He’s helpless, exposed, and he doesn’t dare to move. It’s like his body thinks that if he stays still enough, he won’t be seen. 

As time goes by, the panic only surges. Kou is left curled up into a very tiny ball, ducking his head down to try to pretend like no one is watching. Unfortunately, that just makes everything worse. With his eyes averted, he can suddenly _feel_ the stares of everyone who passes by. Kou chokes on a sob, trying very hard to pretend like he doesn’t exist. 

But it doesn’t end. Times stretches out. The day gets warmer. The sun crawls higher and higher into the sky, searing at Kou’s skin in a way that he knows will burn. Minutes glue themselves together like taffy pulled tight. 

After what feels like a very long while indeed, a kick comes to Kou’s side. He jolts, yelps, falls over onto his side with hands flying up to protect his face on sheer instinct. No one has touched him yet, and-- and--

Kou forces himself to breathe. It’s a guard and nothing more. He’s never _not_ in danger, but at least this person isn’t someone unknown. 

“Having fun?” the guard asks, but he’s not smiling. 

Kou swallows hard. He doesn’t like this. The guard looks angry. Curling in on himself a little more, Kou tries to pretend like this won’t hurt. Maybe if he’s very still and very good, he won’t be in any more trouble. 

The guard kneels down. The guard tugs Kou out of his tight little ball. The guard grabs Kou’s shirt and _yanks._

Fabric tearing easily, Kou yelps. His hands fly up to try to push the guard away, but weak and injured as he always is, it doesn’t do much. The guard wrestles Kou’s squirming body out of the tatters of his shirt, baring his narrow, bruised chest and scarred skin to the world. Then, he goes for Kou’s pants, ripping them off much the same in a motion that’s way too fast. 

There’s nothing Kou can do to stop it. He’s pulled free of the last protection he has way too quickly. Every part of him is exposed, every bit of skin bare for anyone to see, and now-- now he can feel a thousand eyes, all fixed right on _him_ \-- 

Kou whimpers, curling up tight again as soon as the guard lets him go. The position bares way too much of his ass and what’s between his legs, but it’s better than being all spread out. He can hide like this, even sort of. 

But even that small mercy is ruined when the guard grabs one skinny, twice-broken wrist, yanking it up and handcuffing it to the bench in a way that, combined with the leash still keeping Kou helplessly in place, leaves him held in a way that means there’s nothing he can do to hide. The closest to curling up he can manage is merely tucking his knees to his chest--

“There. Now, you’re going to stay here until the sun goes down. If you’re _lucky..._ maybe no one will try to touch you.”

The guard smiles, but there’s no kindness in it. He stands up, gives Kou one last, sharp kick in the belly, then leaves, vanishing into a group of people that Kou very suddenly realizes are _watching._ The little scuffle must have drawn a crowd, and now, cuffed as he is, there’s not a thing Kou can do to hide. He’s pinned. The people can see _everything_ \-- his skinny chest, his narrow thighs, his bruised hips, his penis and the soft, tender places that he hates being touched most of all. 

Kou feels tears dribbling down his face before he can stop them. It’ll just make them stare more, he knows, he _knows_ it, but he can’t stop. The panic setting into his chest is choking. 

Here until sundown. Hours, hours of being left there, completely bare, to be stared at and watched and-- and probably things that Kou doesn’t even want to think about. A sob wracks Kou’s chest, high and way too loud. He’s completely, helplessly on display. 

All he can do is pray to be taken back to the shelter soon. 

  1. **Mukami Yuuma**



Vampires and the sun don’t get along. Sure, it won’t kill them like the old human legends apparently say, but burned, blistering skin and feeling like you’re going to pass out from the heat honestly isn’t much better. 

Standing outside, barefoot, in the heat of summer is already giving Yuuma a bad feeling. He’s been hauled in a truck somewhere far enough away from the shelter that it probably took a good hour to get there, and that does not say good things about the increasing possibility of being left there to die. Which, that really does _not_ sound like the nice way. 

The sheer fact that there’s a nice way makes Yuuma kind of sick. 

The strange part is that the only thing that’s happened so far is that he’s been left to stand there, right beside the van he got hauled out to the middle of nowhere in. And yeah, he’s in the middle of nowhere alright. Compared to the city that the shelter resides in, the flat land and open grass is just kind of weird. 

He doesn’t have to stand by the truck for long. A second pickup drives up, pulling up just about ten feet away from Yuuma beside the desolate road. It’s silver, unmarked, and there’s something in the back. 

Yuuma squints at first, trying to make out what the pile of...

_Corpses._

Cursing, Yuuma takes a stumbling step back. Before he has time to question anything, though, a man in uniform gets out of the pickup and goes up to the guard watching Yuuma, handing him a sheet of paper.

“Here. Get them buried quick. There’s more where these came from. The labor ones... they die so quickly.”

The two share a knowing smirk, and the next thing Yuuma knows, there’s a large shovel being pressed into his hands 

“Get digging. We want holes, not too long and not too deep. Just enough to drop one of these in and cover it up. Doesn’t matter if it’s pretty, but work hard. The longer your little friends are out here, the worse they’ll stink.” The man gestures broadly in the direction of the grass. 

Yuuma feels close to being sick, but he obeys. Those are vampires. Labor-types, from the sound of it, and also what he’s most likely just been doomed to be. The grass is bristly and hot against his bare feet. He’s already sweating, and after only these few minutes, Yuuma can feel his skin starting to get uncomfortably warm-- definitely starting to burn. He’s dizzy all over from the heat and he hasn’t even started to work yet. 

Digging as quickly as he can, Yuuma hopes that he can get this over with. A quick glance at the truck shows that there are maybe twenty dead vampires in it. Twenty holes, then. Not too deep and not too wide. Not bothering to make sure animals won’t dig them up. This is what happens to his kind. This is how the ones who aren’t fit for happy homes end up. 

Yuuma is strong enough that it goes fast. His body, even worn-down and starved as it is, is muscular enough that he holds up fairly well. He can’t imagine Kou or Azusa doing something like this, which... is exactly why he’s considered too big and strong to be owned properly. 

If he’s... well, Yuuma can’t exactly say lucky, he’ll be sold off to these people. It won’t be a nice life, but it’ll be something other than dying in his cage or shot out back. He really doesn’t know which would be worse. 

As soon as the first grave is deep enough, the guard calls Yuuma over to the pickup. After one simple order, Yuuma grabs the first corpse he can reach, grimacing at the feel of the limp, lifeless body in his arms, at the smears of blood left along his bare skin. It’s absolutely nauseating. 

There’s some form of guilt in dropping the body into its grave. There’s no gently lowering it down, giving the poor vampire some final peace. No, under the eyes of the guard, Yuuma drops him like a sack of meat. 

The vampire hits the bottom of the hole with a sick _thump._ Swallowing down bile, Yuuma shovels dirt over him, not bothering to tamp it down. 

From there, it’s one after another. There’s no stopping, no rest in-between, one grave, two graves, three-- each with closed-eyed corpse dropped into it and loosely covered. Even under the heat, Yuuma can’t stop shaking. His hands are trembling so badly he can barely hold the shovel. These could be anyone. This could be how his family ends up. This could be Azusa’s skinny, scarred body that he’s dropping into a pit to rot. 

On top of that, the physical pain is quickly getting worse. Sharp rocks and chunks of debris dig into Yuuma’s bare soles. His skin is blistering by now, visible when he looks down at his shoulders. It’s been hours, judging by the position of the sun in the sky, and he’s still not _done._

There’s sweat in Yuuma’s mouth, someone else’s blood smeared on his chest, and Yuuma honestly doesn’t know if he’s going to laugh or cry. 

By the time the twentieth hole has been dug, by the time the last vampire-- a lithe, bony girl with short-cropped hair-- has been dropped into her final resting place, the sky is dark. Yuuma is spent down to his core, body so weak he can barely stand up. He doesn’t know how he’s still standing, but one threat from the guard that he might be digging his own grave next if he tried to take a break was enough to keep him in line. 

“Done?” the guard asks. Yuuma nods silently. “Good. Get back in the truck. We’ll be back tomorrow to do the next load. We’ll see how many days we can get out of you before you drop.”

He might die like this, Yuuma thinks as he obediently crawls back into the back of the covered van. They’ll probably work him until there’s nothing left. Before long, it’s likely that one of these graves will be his. 

  1. **Mukami Azusa**



Azusa sits alone in his cage, staring off into space and thinking of things that he quickly forgets. He doesn’t know how long he’s been shut up in the solitary room, but the guards said that they wanted him there, so there’s no way he’d complain. He stays where he is, curled up on his side inoffensively, watching the patterns in the walls and staying quiet. 

Eventually, someone comes in. It’s the guards, two of them, smaller men than Azusa is used to, thinner than the ones in charge of hauling all of them around. The two of them are laughing and shoving each other like friends. How nice, Azusa thinks, that they get along so well. 

“Hello there,” one of them says, squatting down by Azusa’s cage. The funny thing is that Azusa can’t place when he got from the door to there. 

“Here,” the next one says, “come on out. We’re going to play a game for a bit, and we want you to play with us.” The guard is smiling like something is very funny, even though Azusa hasn’t heard anything funny at all. He unlatches Azusa’s cage, though, and swings the door open.

Obediently, but on shaky limbs, Azusa crawls out of his cage, kneeling on the floor in front of the two of them instead. The room is spinning a little bit, which is strange, but other than that, nothing is wrong. 

“Shit, this one’s stupid,” the first guard says. “Look at it, staring off into space like some kind of retard. Did it get hit on the head or something?”

Azusa tips his head a bit. They’re probably talking about him, but that’s okay. It doesn’t matter what humans say about him. Even if they’re angry, if he’s very good, he can be useful for letting them take their stress out on him. He can be beaten and hurt and left in pain to make sure that he’s of use. He can be worth keeping around. Maybe the guards will beat him, Azusa thinks. Maybe they’ll give him more comforting pain. 

“Alright,” the first one says again. Sit up and put your hands out. I’m going to put my hands on top of yours, and when I try to pull them away, you hit ‘em as quick as you can. Got that? It’s real simple.”

Nodding obediently, Azusa tries to memorize the instructions quickly. He holds his hands out, palms up, just like he’s supposed to. No one has ever tried to play a game with him before. Maybe they’re becoming fond of him? Azusa doesn’t know, but he can hope for good things. 

When the guard yanks his hands away, Azusa tries to hit them. Unfortunately, he’s a good second too slow, body not moving anywhere near as quickly as Azusa thought it would. He’s left with his hands in empty air, the guard looking at him very pityingly indeed. 

“See, what did I tell you? It’s _simple._ You could have done it, but no. You weren’t paying attention. Now you have to be punished.” 

Ah, punishment. He really will be hurt. Azusa blinks once, twice, then flinches a second too slow when the guard’s hand flies towards his face, thumping down hard on the top of Azusa’s head. It doesn’t hurt that much-- just a slight ache that makes the world blur around the edges, but Azusa spends a long moment staring off into space anyway, confused. 

“My turn,” the second guard says, sitting down in front of Azusa too. He holds his hands out, Azusa puts his where they’re supposed to be--

And the exact same thing happens. 

Azusa might even have been slower this time. 

The second guard doesn’t look very pitying. Instead, he scowls, glaring as Azusa with open disdain. “Wow, you really are retarded. It’s so easy, and you’re still just sitting there like an idiot. We told you what to do and you’re not doing it. Are you _trying_ to be disobedient?”

Shaking his head, Azusa makes himself stay quiet. These humans don’t want him to talk. He hasn’t been told to. Even though he’s doing his best, it’s not enough. He’ll be punished again soon and--

Abruptly, the second guard grabs Azusa by the head. 

The next thing Azusa knows, his head is forced to the side, slamming into the concrete wall with enough force to leave him seeing stars. Azusa hears a faint _crunch_ , feels a trickle of blood run down his cheek, and a moment later, delayed pain surges down his spine. 

Then, the guard does it again. It hurts more the second time, Azusa involuntarily choking on the pain this time around, gagging hard. 

“You’re.” Another slam. “So.” Again. “Stupid.” Once more.

By the time the fifth hit has settled in, Azusa is seeing blurry colors all across the room. His head hurts worse than it ever has, there’s a steady stream of blood running down that side of his face, and he feels a thousand times more scrambled than before. Like every thought has been shaken loose and dribbled down to the floor along with his blood. 

“Fuck, stop it,” the first one says, his voice garbled. “If you kill it, we’ll both be in trouble. Stick it back in its cage, quick.” 

And that’s what happens. Azusa is shoved back where he belongs, right into his cage where the bars are blurring with double-vision. He lands on his side, staring back at the same wall he was looking at before all of this happened. What a shame that he messed up. He could have kept playing the game with the guards for longer if he hadn’t been slow. 

At some point, the guards vanish from the room and Azusa is left alone. He doesn’t quite know when it happens, but one moment they’re there, and the next, he’s the only one in the room. 

There’s a puddle of blood spreading under his head, Azusa thinks. That’s going to make an awful mess. 

Someone will be mad at him tomorrow too. 


End file.
